


Make Her Yours

by Dancingsalome



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Obsession, Older Man/Younger Woman, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29262747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancingsalome/pseuds/Dancingsalome
Summary: “Make her yours,” his wife said. “Make her yours by any means necessary, and your loss now won’t be such a loss after all. Imagine what a political coup it would be to have Elizabeth Harmon on our side. And judging by the way she looks at you it won’t be difficult. We all have to make sacrifices for the greater good, but I don’t think it will inconvenience us all that much.”But Vasily Borgov is already inconvenienced, and she had never truly understood how deep the well of obsession ran in her husband.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon, Vasily Borgov/Vasily Borgov's Wife
Comments: 17
Kudos: 68
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	Make Her Yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psychomachia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/gifts).



> I hope you will enjoy this treat of, I’m afraid, somewhat dark chocolate. I had envisioned it a bit different, but it insisted on going this way.

The first time Vasily Borgov heard the name Elizabeth Harmon, it was just a piece of curiosa. An oddity because girls rarely played chess well, least of all if they were American, but not more than that. At the time of the tournament in Mexico City she had grown more interesting, and worth a fleeting thought, or two. During the tournament, he found she grew more intriguing by the day. Not because she was pretty; if he had wanted beautiful women, he could have taken his pick. He was Borgov, after all. But it became increasingly apparent she was an exceptional chess player. People talked about her, both in derogatory and awed voices and by the time it was clear they were going to play against each other, he had grown quite expectant.

It turned out to be one of the more interesting games he had played for a long time. An easy game; Beth Harmon was young, and her style still immature, but she was undoubtedly brilliant. Borgov barely looked at her face as they played; he sensed she was almost overcome with nerves, and he felt it unfair to unsettle her further. He had been told he had an intimidating gaze. But he looked at her hands. Beautiful hands, with slender fingers and short, well-kept nails. No polish, no rings, but utterly feminine. Strong hands, her grip when they shook hands had been firm. She moved the chess pieces with elegance and beauty, both delicate and forceful at the same time. It was enjoyable to watch them move. And fleetingly, after the game was over, he wondered how it would feel to be caressed by hands like that. A fancy forgotten as soon as he thought it. Almost forgotten anyway.

He welcomed the news Beth was coming to Paris. Their first game had been easy to win, but he knew she had great potential. The next time she would play better and give him a real challenge. There were worrying rumors of substance abuse; had been even in Mexico, and her mother had died there too. It was a lot to cope with for a girl not yet twenty, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if she didn’t want to play again so soon. But she came and arrived in Paris looking focused and alert.

Borgov enjoyed the press conference more than usual. Beth made it more interesting, and it pleased him enormously both to hear her speak Russian and what she said. For the next few days, he caught himself smiling at the memory. And he liked the thought of Beth alone in her room, spending her time analyzing his games. He had seen her walking a corridor before him one day, moving more like a dancer than a chess player, dressed in narrow black trousers and an oversized sweater. Late at night when his family was asleep, and he drank endless cups of tea, studying chess, Borgov imagined her in those clothes, curled up with her chess pieces and books. Studying him as he was studying her. It was a strangely intimate thought as if it connected them. Already in Mexico, he had noticed he could always sense when she was looking at him. Perhaps she could feel his mind reaching for her’s too.

Throughout the tournament, he was aware of Beth’s achievements. He felt oddly proud of her when she won a game. More than that, he realized he admired her, and he felt a small thrill every time, knowing they moved closer and closer to meet again.

So it annoyed him when Beth arrived late to their game, which he found lacking in respect, and then his irritation turned to anger when he realized she wasn’t just tardy, but hungover as well. Borgov was not a man with a temper, but he wanted to slap her for her disrespect. And underneath the anger, a twinge of jealousy that she had chosen a night of partying over him.

This game he played to crush her, to dominate her completely. Showing her what happened to little girls who felt so little respect for the game, for him, and themselves, that they couldn’t even bother to pretend they cared. He didn’t avoid looking at her this time, no; he let his eyes bore into her as much as he could. It disturbed her, again and again, her eyes sought his, only to look away, pale and trembling. And then, when Beth resigned, he also felt pity. He had been wrong; she cared. But somehow she had lost herself overnight and succumbed to her demons, making a complete disaster of her game.

He felt an unusual turmoil after the game. He had won but could find no pleasure in it. Beth hadn’t given him the fight he knew she had in her, and it had been easy to defeat her. The anger was still in him, but he also felt a powerful urge to comfort her. Both feelings made him want to go to her, saying, what? The contradicting feelings twisted around each other, and, unbidden, they transformed into an image of Beth Harmon naked in his bed, trembling in arousal and at his mercy. Appalled Borgov pushed the image away, and he felt relieved when he learned Beth left before the award ceremony. There was no room in his life for complicated feelings. He loved his family, and he appreciated his friends, but those feelings were stable and without surprises, fitting neatly around his chess games. Beth, by her very being, challenged the structure of his life in a new and very unwelcome way.

And, after Paris, it seemed the phenomenon of Elizabeth Harmon was over, drowning in booze and pills. All that beautiful talent destroyed for lack of discipline. Beth was supposed to soar; she was made to fly high. And now she was destroying herself instead. A letdown, in short, and thus all the easier to not dwell on anymore. Then he learned they had sabotaged her in Paris, she had been tempted on the behest of his own side, and once again he was angered when it concerned Beth Harmon. An ice-cold fury, which made him wonder if he didn’t have a temper after all, and it just hadn’t been challenged before. Fueled further when it was hinted he should be grateful he had been given an easy game. It was a slight he felt keenly. Borgov played to win; he had almost always won, but he expected his opponents to be at their best. Others may think Beth a threat that needed to be neutralized. What he wanted was an opponent worth a good fight. But there was nothing he could do to change the past. Instead, he let it be known he wanted her to be invited to the Moscow Invitational, even if it seemed unlikely she would come.

But Beth came. Sober, once again focused, though some of her confidence had gone. As elegant as ever. She was exquisite to look at, but Borgov didn’t look. He was at once both delighted and disturbed by her presence, acutely aware of every movement she made. Despite the air of fragility she carried, Beth played well. More than well, she won every game, though for a time it looked as if she would lose to Luchenko. Her style had matured, and this time Borgov knew she would meet him with all her strength. He wasn’t the only one of the Russian players she affected. Laev was angry, Luchenko enchanted.

“If I had been forty years younger, I’d marry her,” he said the evening after she had beaten him.

Borgov secretly thought Beth would have said yes. Luchenko had what he himself had never possessed; charm. When he beamed at Beth under his wild white hair, she opened up like a flower, smiling a lovely smile Borgov hadn’t seen before. But then he was not charming, and Beth had had no reason to smile when she saw him.

The center of Borgov’s life has always been chess. It was an obsession he understood; he had been its willing prisoner since childhood. Now, in the heart of his passion, Beth was presiding. So unlike him in every way; in her temperament, in the way she played, but still mirroring him. As infatuated with chess as he was, with the same ambition and drive. Beth Harmon was the very embodiment of his feelings for chess, and perhaps he should not be surprised over the attraction he felt for her.

Borgov never considered losing before a game, but he knew he couldn’t always win. When it happened he was gracious and spent weeks after analyzing his mistakes. Losing to Beth was a novel experience. He felt disappointed in himself, which he always did, but he also felt an intense pride over her. Beth had fought so hard and given him the game of his life. The look of disbelief on her face when he resigned, how it slowly transformed into sheer happiness, made him happy. He had wanted to win as much as always, but now he was glad the game belonged to her.

The embrace was only meant to convey his congratulations, but to hold her in his arms, however briefly, unsettled him. For a second or two, her head rested against his shoulder. Her perfume filled his nostrils; something which smelled of white flowers, but fresh, not sweet and cloying. Borgov resisted the impulse to hold her longer and stepped back to applaud her with the rest. Beth, standing there with her face lit from within, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.

There was a reception after the award ceremony. Small talk and drinks. People who didn’t quite know what to say to him now when he had lost to a red-haired girl almost half his age. He didn’t speak to Beth, but he was painfully aware of where she was in the room at any given time. 

His wife sidled up to him and took his arm. “Miss Harmon is completely fascinated by you. She can’t stop looking your way.”

“She certainly has reasons to gloat.”

“But it isn’t gloating; it’s something else. And the only reason you aren’t staring at her is because you have better discipline.”

He gave her a rueful smile. “I’m sorry.”

She smiled back. “Don’t be; I quite understand.”

They didn’t talk more about Beth until the next day. His wife came back from an errand with a smile on her face.

“Guess what little Miss America has done now? She absconded from her escorts and missed her flight to play chess with the old men in the park instead.”

She sat down, looking very bright, and Borgov knew from experience it meant there was something she wanted. It was rare she insisted on having things her way, but when she did, she invariably got it.

“What is it?”

“I’ve arranged for you to stay here a few more days, and for Miss Harmon’s visa to be extended too. I will go home, and you are going to make her defect.”

“I will do nothing of the sort.”

“Yes, you are. Make her yours by any means necessary, and your loss now won’t be such a loss after all. Imagine what a political coup it would be to have Elizabeth Harmon on our side. And judging by the way she looks at you, it won’t be difficult. We all have to sacrifice for the greater good, but I don’t think it will inconvenience us all that much. And you know you have both her and Girev to contend with at the next World Chess Championship. It would be much better if she were ours then.”

“I can’t do it to you.”

“Never mind me. Miss Harmon is only part of your chess world. I’m content with the rest. I accepted before we got married I would never be part of everything in your life. And on the whole, she seems like a pleasant girl. I’m sure I can grow to like having her around.”

Borgov studied her in silence for a while. He had never needed an interpreter; it had just been judged to be more useful if he feigned ignorance of English. It had been a good excuse to have her with him when he traveled, too. She had always been the one interested in politics as well, and it had been convenient to let her deal with that part of his career, as uninteresting to him as it was unavoidable. He thought his wife clever, calculating, practical, and he had always admired her strength. Now when he looked at her cheerful face he wondered, not for the first time, how far involved with politics she truly was. And again, he decided he rather not know. After all, he loved her. Had it been any other woman he would have refused, but now it was Elizabeth Harmon, and he could not resist.

“Very well.”

She rose and kissed his cheek. “I knew you would see reason.”

But when he was alone, he felt doubtful. He wasn’t a philanderer; he did not know how to seduce someone. For a moment he felt a stirring of panic, but then he calmed down. He knew how to play chess, after all. He could play Beth. And though they had barely spoken to each other, he felt he knew her very well, and he knew what temptation she would find hard to resist.

Borgov remembered her and her mother in Mexico City. His handlers had told him Mrs. Whately was a drunkard and a slut, but he had heard her play. He liked music, and she had talent. No one could play like that and not have depth, and the tenderness and love she and Beth had had for each other was obvious. He had seen them walking arm in arm through the hotel lobby, their heads bowed together and smiling at each other. And he remembered how Beth had walked the same floor a few days later, grief-stricken, and alone. Terribly alone. She was not friendless, he knew that, but all the family she had ever had left her, by death or by design. For all her faults, Mrs. Wheatley had been a barrier between Beth and her addictions, and he was certain the catastrophe in Paris would not have happened if she had still been alive. A family grounded you and supported you, and Beth needed that, regardless if she knew it or not. And he could be whatever she needed, be it father, lover, or both.

Looking out at the window, he saw Beth walking towards the hotel. There was a spring in her step, and as she came closer, he could see she was smiling. Borgov opened the door to his suit. Though he had never caught her in the act, he was sure Beth had looked in on him before; now he was ready when she emerged in the doorway. She looked beautiful, her pale skin flushed after her walk, and her eyes sparkled. 

“Would you like to come in?”

For a moment Beth hesitated, then she stepped inside, looking around. When he closed the door she jumped, and he took care to move away from it so she wouldn’t feel trapped.

“Isn’t your wife here?”

“She has gone back home, but I still have a few things to do in Moscow.”

“And what would she say if she knew you were with me?” 

Her tone of voice was neither flirtatious nor coy, and Borgov decided to be truthful.

“She knows.”

“Oh.”

Beth looked a little nervous, flitting around the room, and Borgov thought she would leave after all. But then she settled to look out of the window. He went to look over her shoulders; sunset was settling in, and the room had grown darker. The room was too hot; he wasn’t usually bothered by heat, but now it felt oppressive. 

“Have you had an enjoyable day?”

“Yes. I think I must have played chess with half of the old men in Moscow by now.” Beth looked over her shoulder and smiled. “I was surprised they were so welcoming- I thought they would dislike me.”

“Of course they don’t. They will brag for years about the time the great Harmon beat them in chess. It will be a memory to treasure.”

Beth turned back to the view. “And you? Will you treasure that memory too?

“Yes.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. Beth tensed, but then she relaxed into the touch. She smelled fresh of cold winter air and the same perfume she had worn the day before.

“So you don’t hate me?”

“Not at all.”

She turned around a smooth movement that somehow kept his hand on her shoulder, and looked up at him, her eyes enormous.

“But in Paris? You were so angry at me then.”

“I was angry, yes, when I saw how you pulled yourself down. But I’ve never hated you. And now, I-”

But Borgov never got to finish the sentence. To his complete surprise, Beth took a step forward, stood on her toes, and kissed him. For a moment he froze, but before she could withdraw, he found his bearings and pulled her into his arms. Her body fitted well against his, he noticed, as she had always been meant to be close to him.

Somehow she was naked before he had even removed his jacket, laying on his bed as he had once imagined. Beautiful, but in the twilight, she seemed as elusive as moonlight on water; more like a dream than a woman of flesh and blood. Borgov turned on the bedside lamp, and Beth’s body became alabaster instead in the golden light, her eyes large and dark as she looked up at him. A little more substantial, but he still felt half afraid she would disappear like a dream if he stopped touching her. He felt feverish, wanting to mark her, bruise her like it would make it more real if he could see a trace of himself on her body. Her skin was like delicate silk under his touch, and it only made him rougher and greedier. Then, surprised over his need, and afraid he would really hurt her, he pulled back, softening his caresses, but Beth dug her nails into his back. 

“No. More. Don’t stop.”

Perhaps she felt the same; that the moment would slip out of their hands if they didn’t hold on tightly, so he took her roughly, his hand pressing down on her wrists, pinning her underneath him. Beth wrapped her slim legs around his hips; her body meeting his with equal ardor. She came under him with a cry like a bird, and he followed her, dimly wondering how being with Beth amplified the pleasure to something wholly new.

Afterward, Beth nestled into his arms and fell asleep. He laid there, feeling her body relaxing against his, and he stroked her hair, listening to her quiet breaths and when he was sure she was sleeping deeply he quietly slipped out of the bed. Sitting in an armchair, Borgov watched her, her hair like a flame in the pool of light from the bed lamp. There was already a stir of longing to touch her again, but the frenzy he had succumbed to was gone. Now he needed to be himself again, to think with a clear and objective mind.

Would Beth stay if he tried to persuade her? Yes, he thought so. She would be his; she already almost was. The more he thought about it, keeping her with him felt more and more alluring. To see her fulfill all her potential, to see her grow. Teach her; she still had things to learn. To protect her; there were still too many things that could go wrong. She might have conquered her addictions for now, but Borgov knew they would never fully leave her alone. He could keep her safe. And for others, she would be the perfect trophy, and they would pet and spoil her so she might never realize how firmly the gilded cage would be locked behind her. 

Borgov wanted it, and he could make it real, but it would not happen. He would spend a few days in Beth’s company, relish every minute of them, and then he would make sure she stepped into the plane which would take her away from him. Perhaps half a world between them would be a safe distance. He realized his wife had understood Beth’s mind quite well, but as she had said herself; she had never fully understood the depth of his obsession for chess, or how much of it that now encompassed Beth. And she did not know how dangerous it would be for him if Beth stayed. He had lost himself in her just now, and his wife had grossly miscalculated if she thought Beth posed no threat to the well-ordered life they had built together.

It was not a problem to make Beth his. The danger was what Borgov had known since he had given her the black king; that he was already completely and irrevocably, hers.


End file.
